


Down This Chain of Days

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epilogue, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long-delayed epilogue to the 2014 Musketeers Big Bang fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2353931">I Own Every Bell That Tolls Me</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down This Chain of Days

**Author's Note:**

> You might want to read the [previous story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2353931) in this series for any kind of clarification. 
> 
> The title comes from Neko Case's ['At Last'](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/139574081077).

**A week earlier**

D’Artagnan pushed the balcony door shut behind him and took a deep breath. The air wasn’t cold yet, Paris still uncommitted to winter. He tried to shake himself awake anyway.

Behind him, Constance’s apartment was still cluttered with plans and blueprints. Captain Treville was holding office as he, Constance, and the Musketeers Agency scrambled to cement their plan to trick Milady and Rochefort into trapping themselves.

The sun would be coming up in a few hours; their margin of error was narrowing with each minute. D’Artagnan had to be ready to take on the mission his captain had entrusted him with. He had to do this for Athos.

The door creaked open and shut, and Porthos came to stand beside him. The other man shook out his arms and rolled his head, cracking his neck. “You ready for this?” he asked d’Artagnan.

D’Artagnan straightened. “Yes,” he said resolutely.

“You don’t have to be,” Porthos told him. He stared at d’Artagnan like he could see all the doubt and turmoil inside d’Artagnan’s brain. “You’re not expected to carry the weight of an entire operation because the captain thinks you have something to prove.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan said quickly.

Porthos raised an eyebrow at him.

D’Artagnan scuffed his shoe. “I know _now_ ,” he amended. He glanced up at Porthos. “Thanks.”

Porthos rolled his eyes and slung an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “You know the best part about this whole mess?” he asked.

D’Artagnan made a face. “Don’t tell me.”

“You’ll have to build up a tolerance—”

“I said don’t—”

“—to trick Rochefort.” Porthos grinned. “Let’s get Aramis. Time to hit the clubs!”

“Porthos, no,” said d’Artagnan.

Aramis popped his head around the balcony door. “Did someone say ‘getting wasted’?”

“No one said that,” said d’Artagnan.

“Part of our plan is to convince Rochefort that you’re heartbroken and drunk enough to turn on us.” Aramis stepped fully onto the balcony, rubbing his hands in glee. “You don’t want to actually spill your guts to the slimy bastard when you’re supposed to be planting the seeds of our super-secret double-cross. Come on. Tomorrow night, after your shift, meet us at the Burren. Wear those really tight skinny jeans you have, you know the ones.”

Unfortunately, d’Artagnan did know. “I threw them out,” he lied.

“No you didn’t,” said Porthos.

“Okay, fine. Athos wouldn’t let me. He might… like them. A lot.”

“Excellent,” said Aramis. “We’ll make you a fake lightweight in no time.”

*** * * * ***

**Present (in drops and days scattered over a week)**

Athos was not a morning person.

He was grumpy, uncommunicative, and terse. He spoke only after his fourth cup of coffee had kicked in. He regularly ignored and walked past friends who tried to hail him. Athos could go through the motions of his morning rituals without thought, and would find himself at the office, their client’s house, or -- on one occasion when the local roads were closed and he took a detour by accident -- the county prison, without knowing exactly how he’d gotten there; only that he had.

Aramis could tell of at least five instances when Athos had given up on figuring out how to open the unlocked agency door, and had stood there with his forehead against the glass until either Aramis or Porthos had taken pity on him.

Constance swore that she’d seen Athos kick a mugger to the ground in his pre-cognitive haze, cuff the man, and then continue to his car. Athos still didn’t know if she was lying.

Athos himself was aware of this behavior only through second-hand accounts; his own recollection of these instances was null. His brain, hardwired to wake every morning at six on the dot, propelled him through his tasks with no thought required. By his second cup of coffee, all details of the morning had been swept away and replaced with the reassurance that he had, indeed, somehow woken and delivered himself to his destination fully dressed and prepared.

Once he was up, he was up. That didn’t mean he had to be awake for it.

Aramis compared him to a zombie. Porthos said he was more like a robot with a virus: programmed to do certain tasks with no memory afterward of what they had been.

Yes, Athos was not a morning person. However, this didn’t stop him from waking on this particular day in a split-second jolt of awareness and thinking:

 _Time to get up_.

The process that protected Athos’ mind from such trauma as “mornings” and “glaring, pre-coffee sunlight” reduced Athos’ input to essential facts. His train of thought, as it were, went as follows:

_Awake. Sunlight. Morning._

_No d’Artagnan in bed: it’s a weekday._

_I have work._

_Get up._

_Morning breath: brush teeth._

He staggered to the bathroom to brush his teeth, his mind jumping over the fact that his breath was a result of four takeaway meals, the remains of which littered the floor by his bed. He had no mental energy to notice the bags or to search his mental cavities to find the memories of bunking down with d’Artagnan after narrowly escaping death as his family’s estate burned to the ground, courtesy of Athos’ angry ex.

_Cold: put on clothes._

_Tired: coffee._

Athos dressed. He sat on the bed and tugged his shoes on. He found a leather jacket on the floor and put it on.

An extraneous thought determinedly wiggled its way through the haze of his mind and grabbed his attention. The light was wrong.

_Not morning. Late for work._

_Late: hurry._

Athos’ energy output increased by a fraction. He moved to the kitchen to find the coffeemaker. D’Artagnan was standing at the counter by the kitchen window. He was speaking into a phone.

D’Artagnan: not part of the morning routine. Thus, irrelevant.

Athos went to the coffee maker and stared at it.

_Coffee: on a timer._

The equation of “timer set for 6:15 a.m. + it is not currently 6:15 a.m.” would take another few hours to reach the forefront of Athos’ brain. As it was, he stared expectantly.

And stared.

"Hold on," said d’Artagnan’s voice. "He’s out of bed again."

A hand tugged at Athos’ arm. He ignored it.

“Come on, Athos,” said d’Artagnan. Dimly, Athos registered that he could choose to resent the tone if he wanted to muster the energy. D’Artagnan was soft and wheedling, as if he was talking to a child. “Let’s go back to bed, okay?” Then his voice changed again, wry and deep. “I leave him alone for one minute, and he’s up and staring at the coffee machine. I might have to sit on him again. I’ll call you later -- yup. Bye.”

Athos stared at the coffee machine some more.

“Athos,” said d’Artagnan, his voice gone soft and coaxing again. “Athos, over here. Babe, come on. Look at me.”

With tremendous effort, Athos swung his gaze over to d’Artagnan. This wasn’t part of his morning routine. It was nice, though: d’Artagnan with his sweatpants slung low on his hips, his dark hair shining in the sun from the window behind him. It looked warm. Like Athos could maybe put his cheek on it and close his eyes. Then they could nap in the sunshine.

Athos didn’t mind messing up his schedule for this.

D’Artagnan moved closer. “We have the day off, remember?”

Athos didn’t. He conveyed this with a determined lack of change in his blank, exhausted stare.

“You’re really out of it, aren’t you? You aren’t usually this bad.” D’Artagnan brushed a flop of hair from Athos’ eyes. His hand stayed atop Athos’ head, scratching idly. Athos’ eyes drooped. That was nice. “This week was really bad for you.” D’Artagnan slid his hand down to cup the back of Athos’ head. He pressed a kiss to Athos’ forehead. “It was bad for both of us, but you especially. I know.” He sighed against Athos’ skin, and then he stepped back. “Come on.”

Athos let d’Artagnan take his hand. He resisted when d’Artagnan tried to lead him away from the coffee, though.  

_Coffee._

D’Artagnan stopped and turned to face Athos fully. He took both of Athos’ hands in his. Though his hands were gentle, his jaw was set. Athos recognized, even through the fog, that d’Artagnan had made a decision and he wouldn’t be budged on it.

“We’re gonna go back to bed,” said d’Artagnan. “We’re gonna sleep forever. Maybe in a decade or so we’ll go back to work. I had to be your enemy for a whole week, and I’m not letting you go out and put yourself in danger again so soon.”

He tugged on Athos’ hand again, and this time Athos followed. He didn’t know what this break in routine was, but he trusted d’Artagnan to know.

He rubbed his thumb over the back of d’Artagnan’s hand fondly. D’Artagnan’s breath stuttered, but he didn’t pause until they were at the bed.

D’Artagnan stripped Athos of his work clothes and slid him back under the covers. Athos drifted for a moment or two while d’Artagnan went to retrieve his phone. The sun was hitting Athos just right. He was already halfway to sleep when he felt the covers lift and the bed dip, and a warm body slide in next to him.

D’Artagnan wrapped his limbs around Athos and ground his forehead into Athos’ breastbone in one of his aggressive signs of affection. “Now stay, or I’ll steal all your coffee,” d’Artagnan instructed through a yawn. Athos obeyed, and let himself sink into sleep.

Ninety-two minutes — a full REM cycle — later, his eyes snapped open.

_Time to get up._

The weight on top of him groaned. A hand in the region of Athos’ shoulder waved around and then flopped back to the bed, spent.

“Not again,” d’Artagnan said into his chest. “I’m not moving until you go back to sleep. Sleeeeeep.”

Athos’ internal checklist started ticking.

_Awake. Sunlight. Morning._

_D’Artagnan in bed: weekend. No work._

_Sleep._

Athos sighed and closed his eyes again. He ran a hand up d’Artagnan’s back, just to feel him, just to let d’Artagnan know that he would rather be nowhere but here.

_Sleep._

* * * * *

Anne shuffled through a file folder. She discarded that one and flipped through another folder.

“Marguerite,” she called through her open door, “where — oh.” She took the paper from Constance as the detective entered Anne’s office. “Thank you.”

“Marguerite said it just printed out; I assumed you’d want it.” Constance closed the door and pulled a chair to the side of Anne’s wide desk. She dropped a plastic bag, steaming and smelling deliciously of greasy food, on the floor beside the chair. “So what’s the damage?”

“According to the records on file, we have more than forty cases that Rochefort closed on his own. Another sixty-seven were closed with the assistance of another officer.” Anne patted a tall stack of files to the right of her desk. “Those we’ll have to go through and question the additional officers on the details of the case.”

“And the ones Rochefort closed alone?”

Anne sighed. “We’re combing through each case individually. We might have to reopen a number of them. Luckily, the captain gave me prior warning and I’ve been able to make some headway on contacting the subjects of some of the cases. But it’s going to be a long job.”

Constance nudged some papers out of the way and pulled two takeaway containers from the bag at her feet. “Let’s eat while we talk,” she said.

Anne smiled wanly. “Don’t you know I’m watching my figure?”

Constance snapped her chopsticks apart and pointed them at Anne’s desk. “The stress of this work’ll burn your fat right off.”

Anne reached for the other container. “Pad Thai?” she guessed.

Constance winked. “How long have I known you?”

Anne poked through her noodles, pleased. “Long enough to remember that I don’t like peanuts.”

“Ridiculous.” Constance stuffed a piece of beef into her mouth. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast too early that morning, and now it was half-past two. “Who doesn’t like peanuts?”

Anne daintily wiped her mouth. “Let me take you out for drinks when we’re done here to pay you back. This equals half a shot each, don’t you think?”

“Two shots,” Constance retorted. “This is high-end takeaway. I say absolutely. Lord knows we’ll need a reward at the end of this. And you can update me on your euphemistic love life.”

“Oh, no,” Anne groaned. “I have to tell you about the latest — ”

“Bettany?” Constance asked eagerly.

“She’s developing _feelings_ ,” Anne despaired. “I don’t know how to do feelings. I hate dumping them at the first sign of romance, but…”

Constance patted Anne’s chopsticks with her own in sympathy. “Can’t an aro girl have fun in this town without those pesky feelings getting in the way? I’m serious!” she added when Anne eyed her. “I’m always on your side.”

A knock on Anne’s office door interrupted them. Marguerite, Anne’s admin, poked her head in. “Anne? There’s someone here to see you.” She took in the casual setting and winced. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think this is important.”

Anne wiped her hands on a napkin and reached for a drawer. “Of course. Won’t you see our guest to the conference room? I’ll be right there.”

Marguerite looked at Constance. “You might want to be there as well, I think.”

Constance and Anne traded looks.

“Thank you, Marguerite,” said Anne. Marguerite nodded and closed the door.

Constance stood and straightened her blouse as Anne fixed her lipstick. Without another word, they exited Anne’s office and made their way to the conference room on the other side of the block of cubicles that composed the legal department of the Thirty-Six police force.

Marguerite was setting a cup of water in front of their visitor, a young woman with long, shaggy, badly-dyed blonde hair. Marguerite smiled at her boss and Constance and then slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Constance took a seat and examined the girl in front of her. The hands that reached for the water were scabbed around the knuckles, and when she lifted her head Constance saw the echo of a faded bruise on her jaw.

Anne extended a hand across the table. “I’m Ms. d’Autriche. This is my colleague, Detective Bonacieux. My assistant told me that you asked to speak to me.”

The girl nodded jerkily. Her eyes darted toward the door and back, cataloguing the exit. “‘M here about the news,” she mumbled.

Anne leaned forward. “The news?”

“They said there’d be a reward. Can I get the money? I have information.”

Anne blinked. “I’m not sure I’m the person you should speaking to,” she began. “The police take tips on ongoing cases, but my department only deals with legal issues.”

“No,” the girl said stubbornly. She looked up, and Constance was taken aback by the fire in her glare. “They said there’d be money for information on that jackass — Rochefort.”

Constance clenched her hands under the table. So far their tip line hadn’t brought in any authentic witnesses to Rochefort’s corruption. Could this twig of a girl have the stake they needed to hammer into Rochefort’s coffin?

Anne shifted carefully. “We’re putting together a case again Rochefort,” she said, her voice calm. “If you have information about his dealings, we would appreciate you sharing it greatly.”

“Appreciate how much?” The girl’s eyes were cautious, flickering between the two women and the doorway again.

Anne stalled, glancing at Constance in confusion.

Constance spoke up smoothly. “We would of course be willing to overlook any questionable activities you might have engaged in while obtaining this information. No charges will be held against you for crimes you witnessed — as long as you tell us _everything_.”

The girl took a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. Deal.”

Constance fought down a bubbling thrill as she pulled out her notebook. God help them, she hoped this was good information.

The girl cleared her throat. “My name’s Mathilde,” she said. “Rochefort used to see me. Every Tuesday, but sometimes more often. Only, he called people on his phone when he thought I wasn’t listening. He’d talk about deals — I know enough to tell he was talking about drugs. He mentioned names, too. And...”

Mathilde reached into the front pocket of her hoodie and pulled out a thick pad of unbound papers covered in rough scribbles.

“I wrote it all down.”

* * * * *

D’Artagnan kept his hand at the small of Athos’ back. “Here’s a stool,” he said soothingly, steering Athos to the kitchen counter. “You sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Is he always like this?” an amused voice asked from the vicinity of the coffee-maker. Constance leaned against the counter, sipping a full mug of coffee she’d poured for herself. She nudged a similarly full cup toward d’Artagnan.

He accepted it with a grateful kiss to her cheek and brought it over to Athos, who had lowered his face to the countertop. “You should have seen him yesterday,” said d’Artagnan. “He kept trying to get up and shower. I would be a little scared he might drown in there one day, but he has it down to a science.”

He placed the mug in front of Athos and gently wrapped his boyfriend’s hands around the warm ceramic. “Here,” he told Athos. “The elixir of life. Don’t burn your tongue.”

He turned back to Constance. “So,” he said. He couldn’t help twisting his hands nervously in the hem of his shirt. “You said you had news about…” He glanced at Athos, who was investigating his drink. “You know?”

Constance nodded. “Anne spoke to someone who’s connected to the investigation. But listen, you have to keep this quiet. It turns out that she’s getting a plea deal.”

D’Artagnan’s knuckles went white. His fingernails clawed into his palms even through the fabric. “What?”

“It’s not just a throwaway deal,” Constance said quickly. “She’s giving up information about Richelieu. Real information. If we keep this quiet, we could close in on Richelieu and a huge part of his crime network within a few months. _Months_ , d’Artagnan. Do you know that Captain Treville spent years trying to pin Richelieu down?”

D’Artagnan couldn’t resist giving his shirt one more twist. It was perfectly fair by the rules of give-and-take. The justice system would benefit. The world would probably benefit.

But it wasn’t _fair_.

Constance set her mug down and laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. “You didn’t do all this for nothing. Her testimony is going to stop a lot of good, innocent people from being hurt. Rochefort is never going to step outside as a free man again.” She looked over his shoulder. “And you helped a good man settle his demons.”

Before d’Artagnan could say anything, a knock at the front door startled them both.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Constance asked, already at the door. She peeked through the peephole. “Oh!”

“What is it?”

“I think,” said Constance slowly, “it might be a d’Artagnan.”

“What?” D’Artagnan scrambled to the door and wrenched it open to reveal a woman with d’Artagnan’s dark eyes and hair and furious scowl.

“Oh, no,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“Time’s up, brat,” said his sister. She pushed past him into the apartment. “Get your coat. We’re going to lunch.”

D’Artagnan chased after her. “No, no, no. Chiara! What are you doing here!”

His sister stopped in the entrance to the kitchen area, bringing up short so d’Artagnan caught her by the shoulders to avoid bowling her over. He peeked over Chiara’s messy mom-bun and saw Athos squinting blearily at the both of them through the steam rising from his cup.

“So,” said Chiara frostily. “You’re the guy who broke my brother’s heart, huh?”

“Hrm?” said Athos.

D’Artagnan clutched his sister’s shoulders and tried to drag her away. Chiara didn’t budge. “Come on. I told you all over the phone, it was all made up for a case.”

"So you say," Chiara said suspiciously, but she didn’t sound like she was going to jump Athos and try to choke him out. She shook d’Artagnan off of her and turned around. “Lunch,” she ordered. “My treat.”

D’Artagnan hesitated, glancing back at Athos who looked lost.

Constance patted Athos’ back and smiled reassuringly at d’Artagnan. “I’ve got him. You deserve to go spend some time with family.”

D’Artagnan wanted to protest that he had already been spending time with Athos, and that it was the same thing, but he wisely clamped his mouth shut and nodded and followed Chiara out of the apartment.

“Lisabeth’s furious with you,” Chiara informed him as they walked to the restaurant she had chosen. “Your excuse you gave us on the phone was a stopgap at best. You’re lucky I convinced the girls to let me come down here instead of them all descending on you at once.”

“You’re the goodwill committee?” d’Artagnan asked, a touch waspishly.

“I’m the intelligence agent.” She nudged him. “Spill.”

He huffed. She let him stew while they walked. She knew the arguments that he would provide, and he knew the answers she would give him. His business was an official police investigation; but he had worried his only remaining family. He had been under orders; but he had isolated himself at the moment when his sisters had been ready to rally around him.

He had been the one to find their father bleeding in their field. He was the baby, the youngest, and he looked to his sisters as guardians as well as peers.

Any arguments he might have made about official police secrets didn’t even hold up in the privacy of his own mind. He was lonely. He was tired of pretending to do things he wouldn’t do. He was scared that his subterfuge had begun to turn him into someone he wasn’t.

He scuffed his boots along the pavement. “Can you call Lisbeth for me?” he asked quietly.

Chiara glanced at him sidelong. “Don’t you think explaining it to all of us would be easier?”

He shook his head. The pressure had been building within him since he’d found out about Milady. He couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore — he needed to tell someone, all at once, face to face and not over a hastily arranged conference call.

“I trust you to get it right,” he said. “I’ll talk to them about it. Just not now, okay? I need to.” He took a breath, frustrated. He needed everything to go back to normal. “I just need to forget about it for a while.”

“Charlie.” Chiara took his arm and stopped him, heedless of tourists who were forced to walk around them. “What happened?”

*

Athos registered that he was awake as he drained the last of his coffee. He blinked and looked around. Constance was curled up in a beam of late-morning light on the couch, reading a book. The rest of the apartment was quiet and still.

Constance looked up. “Is that you?” she asked. “Not Robot Athos?”

Athos raised his hand. “Present.”

“Oh, good.” Constance unfolded herself and crossed the apartment to perch on the stool next to his with her book and tea. “D’Artagnan’s gone out to lunch with his sister. I don’t know if you remember.”

Athos grunted. He might; or that might have been a dream of d’Artagnan leaving with a stranger. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon. Are you hungry?”

Athos shook his head. “What day is it?”

“Don’t worry; you still have three days left on your vacation. I’d say you need it, if this is the first time you’ve been properly awake. D’Artagnan snitched on you,” she added over her shoulder. She was exploring the pantry. Athos thought vaguely of the dry cereal hidden somewhere in the back. That was probably low-maintenance enough for him right now. He could pour milk.

On second thought, maybe he’d eat the cereal dry.

“What of the case?” he asked.

Constance shook her head. “I’m under strict orders not to bother you with it.”

“You wouldn’t be bothering me,” he said sharply. “I spent too much time on this to be locked out of it now.”

Constance turned to him and pursed her lips.

Athos took a breath. He was too tired for words, but he forced himself to rearrange them in his head until they meant an approximation of what he felt. Constance deserved that.

“I didn’t mean to snap. I’d just like to know what’s going on.” When she was silent, he said, “Constance. Please. I spent too many years regretting what I didn’t do before. I need to know that when I took action this time, I might have made up for some of my past mistakes.”

Constance sank back onto the stool beside his. She took his hands in hers, which were dry and calloused but gentle.

“I ask this as a friend of yours and a friend of d’Artagnan’s,” she said. “Do you think you’re going to be able to separate yourself from her after this?”

“I have,” he said, somewhat surprised. His dismissal of his ex-wife when she sat in the back of a cop car, that had only been the completion of his separation from her. He had begun the process much earlier.

The therapy, the self-awareness, the rekindled passion for his career and his friends — those had all helped pull him out of the deep well of regret that he’d been sunk in for years. But none of those would have been possible if not for one vital step: Athos had learned that he was wanted, unconditionally and unselfishly.

There were some things he couldn't explain. They were a silent howl inside him that he couldn't parse in words.

He had tried to explain some of this to d’Artagnan, who had nodded and listened quietly; but Athos had seen the lack of understanding. He was glad d’Artagnan didn't know that kind of tangled hurt but —

But he wanted d’Artagnan to _understand_ , wanted to shake him until he lashed out at Athos and knew what it was like to be hurt, irrationally, at whim, by someone he loved; so that he could fully understand the miracle that was his love for Athos. No one who hadn’t suffered a marriage like Athos’ could really know what it was to be loved again after being wrecked, over and over, by others and by himself.

“I think, if things had gone differently, I would have remained as obsessed with her as she is with me,” he admitted. “If not for d’Artagnan, I would have been stuck on her. Not — not really her. Stuck on that night and all the things I should’ve done better. All the ways I’d failed.” He swallowed, but it didn’t dislodge the lump in his throat. “D’Artagnan opened a new door for me. All of sudden I could try again. Make mistakes and be forgiven. I…”

Athos shook his head and scoffed, albeit a trifle wetly. “He accused me of murder. It should have been like… her… all over again. But he…”

D’Artagnan in his small hometown’s hotel, eyeing Athos distrustfully despite Athos’ fancy watch and without knowing Athos’ disastrous past. D’Artagnan turning to Athos after they had watched the security footage, looking Athos up and down in a different way; offering him coffee in the pre-opened local café; smiling at him from behind the counter; his eyes weighing on Athos as Athos sat in the sunlight and read his paperback and tried to resist looking up to where he knew he’d find d’Artagnan watching him.

D’Artagnan writing to Athos from the academy, calling him, teaching him how to Skype, pausing his diatribes to ask Athos questions that no one else thought to ask, that no one was around to ask — _How was your day? What did you want to be when you were little? What do you do if you can’t stop the ones you love from dying? Have I told you about all the things I saw today that reminded me of you?_

“He saw me in a way no one else ever has,” Athos finished quietly.

He consciously took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The lump in his throat didn’t lessen, but it became more bearable. He raised his eyes to Constance and smiled crookedly at her. “You didn’t come here to be my therapist,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Constance sniffed, an unladylike _hork_ of snot, and blinked her wet eyes. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Friends listen to each other when they’re hurting or trying to figure things out. And… I understand the feeling of being attached to something you know is bad for you.” She bit her lip and pulled her hands back to huddle over her own, nearly empty, mug. “You know, Bonacieux isn't my maiden name.”

Athos was startled enough to jerk back. “Maiden…?"

Constance nodded. “I married when I was eighteen. It was hard.” She blew out a breath, but her shoulders didn’t loosen from their tight hunch over the table. “My husband wasn’t…”

“Constance,” said Athos softly.

She shook her head. “He wasn’t a good husband,” she said more firmly. “I knew it while we were dating and while we were married. It’s just,” she shrugged, “where I was from, you either get married out of high school or you go to college. My parents didn’t have the money to send me to school, so I was taken care of when I got married. I understood, but I hated it. I hated myself for hating it. So when he died a year and a half later, I was lost.”

“I’m sorry,” said Athos.

“I’m not,” said Constance. “It took me so long to figure out why I could never do right by him. Even longer to realize why I felt so guilty about never having loved him. But I still keep his last name because I can’t let go of that part of me that feels grateful that he married me.”

Constance threw her hands in the air. “And, you know, it’s stupid! It doesn’t make sense! I shouldn’t be indebted to him for making me feel like shit for three years! But I feel it anyway, so what can I do?”

Athos was silent for a minute, nodding. “‘I feel it anyway’,” he echoed. “Very apt.”

“There were other factors,” Constance shrugged. She seemed looser now that the initial confession had been made. “I was afraid of striking out on my own and then failing. I was afraid of the specter of respectability.” She gestured vaguely as if the mentioned ghost was hovering above them. “I didn’t want to be shamed for a divorce. Everyone made such a fuss about me getting a husband; the football team came to cheer at our wedding. My father paid for my dress. What would they say if I left? I still struggle with ideas of respectability. I admit, it’s why, a little bit, I…” She glanced at Athos. “I hope you won’t be offended. It has to do with why I…”

Athos broke in gently. “Why you haven’t told us about you and Flea?”

“… I didn’t accept your offer to work at the agenc-- _What?_ ” The bit of cold tea at the bottom of Constance’s cup went flying.

“I — I’m sorry,” Athos stammered. “I didn’t realize —”

“D’Artagnan told you!” Constance said, pink with outrage.

“No!” Athos said quickly. “I figured it out. I am a detective, Constance.”

Constance opened her mouth and closed it. “Oh,” she said finally. “Are you mad at me?”

Athos stared at her in open surprise, long enough that she shifted uncomfortably. “How could I be?” Athos said. “Even without knowing what you just told me about your late husband, I would never judge you on how you conduct your relationships.” He cleared his throat, searching again for the right words. “I could never dictate your thoughts or emotions, so how could I dictate your actions?”

“Ha,” Constance said weakly. “There’s Robot Athos again. That’s really — really sweet of you. Thanks.” She swallowed. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” He paused. “Like I said, it’s not my place to force your hand. But I would suggest letting d’Artagnan know.”

Constance waved that away. “Oh, he knows.”

Athos frowned.

“Athos?” Constance asked cautiously.

“I know I should be glad that he kept your confidence,” Athos said slowly. “But I hope you won’t mind that I’m feeling _ridiculously_ indignant about that.”

*

Chiara stared at her brother, ignoring the fork full of shrimp scampi that she held in midair.

“…Then I got him out of the house,” d’Artagnan mumbled to his plate.

“The house that was on fire?” Chiara squeaked.

“And Milady got arrested and we went home,” d’Artagnan finished hurriedly. He took a gulp of water — no more alcohol for him, now that the operation was over. “And that’s it.”

Chiara stared at him. She put her fork in her mouth and chewed her pasta. She swallowed, wiped her mouth, and put her fork down with a clang.

Then she demanded, “What the _hell_ was your captain thinking?”

Patrons at other tables glanced around at Chiara’s raised voice.

D’Artagnan winced. “It was the only way to…”

“To what? To drive you insane?” Chiara looked around the restaurant. “Where are the movie cameras? Am I in some American cop show where the good guys jump into burning houses and go undercover to bring down their lover’s ex-wife?”

“And an officer who was abusing his badge,” d’Artagnan said sharply.

“This is ridiculous. Why you should’ve had to—“

“I knew what my choices were. I could’ve turned it down.” D’Artagnan’s fingers clenched white where he gripped the corner of the table. “I did this because I wanted to protect the things I care about.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“And my department.” He held her gaze until she tightened her lips.

“You always wanted to be a policeman,” Chiara conceded.

D’Artagnan poked at his half-full plate. “I know that the police force can be used for bad. Really terrible things.” He appreciated that Chiara restrained herself from her usual list of statistics of police cover-ups and badge brutality, and didn’t even cough-mutter “student protests.”

The whole family had called each other in silent, uncoordinated but unanimous worry when a trans woman had been murdered two years ago and the media had slammed the police force for ignoring the case. Chiara was their _principessa_ , their princess, and it pulled at d’Artagnan every day like hooks in his skin to know that his fellow officers could easily be one of the ones who offered her violence by turning away when she was in need.  

“I — we — just worry that you might hurt yourself chasing your ideal dream of what a cop should be,” said Chiara.

D’Artagnan stabbed at his gnocchi. “I want to change how things work. They offered me the chance to show everyone that assholes like Richelieu wouldn’t get away with their actions. Could I turn my back on that?”

“Charlie…”

He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “I trust Captain Treville — I trust Papa’s friend. I trust Athos and his team. I did this for them. Not just for what I think a cop should be.”

Chiara regarded him steadily, a light of pride creeping into her warm brown d’Artagnan eyes. “Now that’s a good reason,” she said, and reached out to squeeze d’Artagnan’s hand.

He squeezed back. Finally he felt well enough to eat some of his lunch. He stabbed at his fish filet with vigor. “So,” he prompted, “now it’s your turn. Tell me everything.”

“You’ve waited long enough,” Chiara agreed. “Lisabeth can recite all the minutiae at you — another reason to be grateful she didn’t meet you today — but here’s the gist of it. LaBarge didn’t receive parole.”

D’Artagnan put down his fork. “Good,” he said distantly. Everything was a little fuzzy with relief. “Good. If I’d jeopardized that because I’d cut you all off, I’d never forgive myself.”

Chiara scoffed. “Oh yes, we were almost lost without our baby brother bossing us around.”

Her humor brought warmth creeping back into d’Artagnan’s heart. He let out a slow breath. “You know what I mean. I had to choose between you and…” He gestured weakly, trying to encompass _Athos_ and _delivering justice_ and _his trust in his friends._ If he had lost his gamble, he would have shut out his family at their time of need.

“You knew Lisabeth could handle it,” Chiara said, as fact.

D’Artagnan picked up his fork again and swirled his pasta. He smiled at his sister. “Yeah. You know the best part? I knew I could handle my side of it too.”

Chiara held out a fist for him to bump. “A superhero team of d’Artagnans, we are.”

* * * * *

Porthos nudged Aramis as the silence spread across the precinct. Aramis straightened and squared his shoulders. Porthos shifted his weight and stared steadily back at the officers openly goggling at the pair of private detectives.

“Seeing as no one here has anything better to do than stand around—”

Treville’s stern voice made the cops, as one, jolt and immediately make themselves busy with whatever was in front of him. Porthos tried not to smirk at one intern who was suddenly intent on examining the instructions on the coffee machine.

“—I might as well take this time to address the state of our partnership with the Musketeers Agency.” From his office door, Treville nodded to Porthos and Aramis.

Porthos was selfishly glad for Aramis’ warmth at his side as they strolled across the bullpen towards Treville’s office. He took his time, raising a challenging brow at any detective who tried to peek at him.

Treville stood with hands akimbo. His usual irritable frown was sharpened with the adrenaline still present in his frame since Rochefort’s arrest.

“I've released a department-wide memo about the recent incident and our covert investigation into Rochefort’s habits. However, I want to make my feelings clear. The Musketeers Agency will be given full respect and cooperation.”

Porthos and Aramis reached the captain, and broke apart to stand on either side of him. They stood at a loose parade rest and scanned the crowd. Porthos examined each face carefully. He wanted to know if d’Artagnan had any enemies when he returned to the force, and he wanted to know before anyone did something stupid.

“Moreover, intern d'Artagnan will be treated with understanding that his actions while undercover do not reflect his own views. His work was instrumental in redefining our mission and exposing multiple corrupt employees. Rochefort has been fired without pay or leave, and is being charged with attempted murder, conspiracy, fraud, solicitation, perjury, and larceny. You may have heard that Detectives Marron, Surligner, and Carnet have been likewise identified and charged.”

Treville stared down every single person under his command. “Racial profiling is not what we do here. Intimidating civilians is not what we do. Making deals with gangbangers and drug dealers for our own profit is not what we do. Clear?”

The station was quiet.

“Am I clear!”

A resounding “Yes, sir!” echoed against the walls.

Treville nodded and motioned the men at his side into his office. He closed the door on the murmurs starting up.

“Guess we had d'Artagnan all wrong,” one intern muttered. “Dusson — you were on the case, right?”

The other interns leaned in close. Zénaide tugged on a curl, conscious of the eager stares. “Not right away,” she said. “They just pulled me in at the last minute to work the radios.”

“But you were on-site, right? What was it like?”

Zénaide thought of Athos on the radio, panic thrumming beneath his voice; and d'Artagnan emerging in a cloud of smoke from a fiery house, panic like a mask on his face as he fell onto the ground and crawled to where Athos lay.

“Hectic,” she said shortly. She stood up. “I have to go get coffee. Excuse me.”

She heard the dissatisfied murmur behind her, but she didn’t care. If this was what real police work was like, she had to protect the people she trusted. D’Artagnan would come back and tell her everything, like he’d promised.

* 

The minute Treville bid them goodbye, Porthos was making his way out of the precinct. By the time he burst through the front doors, he was nearly running.

“Hey. Hey! Porthos!” Aramis caught up to his friend and caught him by the arm. “What’s going on?”

Porthos worked his jaw. “They really thought we betrayed a friend,” he spat. “It makes me sick.”

Aramis’ grip on his arm gentled. “It wouldn’t do any good to point out that was our cover?”

Porthos shook his head wordlessly — not a negation, but a pause as he searched for words. “This wasn’t any old cover,” he said finally. He met Aramis’ eyes. “It was too close to personal for us. And, you know Athos. If he wasn’t screwed up before…”

“Oh, he was,” Aramis sighed. “But have faith. D’Artagnan and Constance have him for now. We’ll drop by tomorrow, alright?”

Porthos shook off Aramis’ hand and turned away.

“Porthos?” Aramis asked, uncertain.

The city was bright all around them, the sun bouncing off of ancient granite and stone facades. Porthos squinted into the middle distance without seeing the throngs of people scuttle to and fro.

“It’s stupid,” he said. “There’s no use in thinking of what could’ve been. It’ll drive you crazy. We figured that out a long time ago. Sometimes I wish it anyway. If things were different, and Milady didn’t get messed up with Athos, and we were okay… Wish I could’ve seen that future.”

 _If all of them were okay_ — if they didn’t have notches on their belts for every nightmare and day-terror they’d endured, every self-doubting moment, every bridge they’d each burned.

If Milady had limited her cons to London; if Porthos had grown up in a fancy house like Athos; if Aramis had had parents who’d understood what it meant to have a baby born already tearing through gender expectations; if Constance had had a childhood she could talk about. If someone had come to them when they were younger and told them all that they were a certain definition of okay.

Porthos let a sigh ripple through his large frame, shaking the melancholy off of him. He shrugged, palms up: what’re ya gonna do?

“It’s no use,” he said. “It just twists your mind in circles.” He started down the steps again. “‘Sides. We never would’ve met d’Artagnan.”

Aramis fell into step by Porthos’ side. “Or Ninon.”

Porthos nodded. “Or Constance, maybe.” He glanced at Aramis. “Or you.”

Aramis grinned. “And what a sad world that would be.”

“Ha.” Porthos elbowed him. “Sadder world without d’Artagnan’s cooking.”

“If we’d never had our crappy lives, we would never have tasted his bouillabaisse, and that would be the worst tragedy,” Aramis agreed. “Come on. It’s almost happy hour — let’s go raise a glass to the world we live in, and then we can go to Athos’ place and badger a meal out of d’Artagnan. They’ve been wallowing for long enough.”

* * * * *

D’Artagnan skulked outside the precinct’s conference room. He wasn’t technically supposed to be here, but he didn’t have strict orders to stay away either. He’d be back on duty in another day, so he might as well get reacclimatized to the precinct, right?

All his rationalizing faded away as the reason he was here stepped out of Conference Room C. The teen whom d’Artagnan and Rochefort had accosted in the run-down shopping mall stopped short at the sight of d’Artagnan.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he demanded of a well-dressed woman who appeared behind him. His lawyer, probably.

Captain Treville appeared in the doorway too, taking in the scene. “Intern d’Artagnan is part of this investigation,” he said in his most official voice. Not a lie; but obviously Treville didn’t know why d’Artagnan was here either.

D’Artagnan stepped forward, his eyes on the kid who was scowling at him. “I wanted to…” To what? His rehearsed speech flew out of his brain.

The teen -- Jérôme Montain, according to the case file -- crossed his arms. “You wanted to make sure I was cooperating?”

“We appreciate all the evidence and eyewitness testimony you’ve given us,” said Captain Treville, still trapped in the conference room. “Your account of Rochefort’s actions will go a long way in proving him guilty.”

“I wanted to apologize,” said d’Artagnan firmly. Jérôme turned back to him. D’Artagnan would not flinch under that accusing gaze, he wouldn’t…

“What Rochefort and I did to you was unconscionable. I’m sorry that it had to happen.”

Jérôme stared at him, waiting. When he realized that d’Artagnan was done, he laughed mirthlessly.

“That’s it? You came here to give me your half-assed apology and… what? What’d you think would happen?” He took a step forward; d’Artagnan thought Jérôme might push him. The lawyer and Captain Treville shifted warily at Jérôme’s back. D’Artagnan wanted to signal them to step down. He didn’t know if he wanted Jérôme to fight him or not; wasn’t sure if he’d fight back. “You thought I’d forgive you for harassing me? Taking my stuff, laughing at me with your buddy?”

“He wasn’t my friend. It was all part of an undercover setup.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what they told me. So you just let it go on. You only need a few angry people to aim tear gas at a crowd, but you suspect a cop of murder and extortion and all that other shit they say they’re charging him with, and you need to catch him on tape before you can bench him? Bullshit.”

“I made a choice,” d’Artagnan began, thinking of what he’d told Chiara.

“Yeah, well. You made the wrong one.”

Jérôme stepped back. “We done?” he asked Captain Treville. When the captain nodded, Jérôme pushed past d’Artagnan and left the station.

*

D’Artagnan walked back to Athos’ place slowly. It wasn’t far from the precinct, a few miles. Barely more than an hour. He needed the time.

_“You made the wrong choice."_

It had always been so easy to decide what to do next. He’d wanted to be a cop since -- he couldn’t remember when he’d made the resolution, or whether the idea had even popped into his head instead of slowly coalescing over time. Maybe when he’d heard stories of his uncle Treville, or when he’d realized what power he needed to keep safe those he loved. Maybe when he’d bought into all the action movies’ ideas of honor proven in combat.

The dream itself had never faltered. Even when his Papa had died and left d’Artagnan alone and in the dark with his father’s blood sticky on his hands.

In the scheme of things, that had even been a boon to his journey, wasn’t it? His drive to achieve justice had been pushed into high gear when injustice had come so close as to skin him and leave him raw and wounded. Scratch out the sleepless nights, the weight loss, the guilt; and it was just the backstory of any old superhero.

He should be gaining his radioactive powers any day now.

He’d gone to the academy because Papa had wanted d’Artagnan to succeed. He’d gotten a job straightaway, with none of the job-hunting crises most in his generation faced, because Gascony was always looking for more hands on the force. He’d thought about moving to Paris, but as a fantasy; his application to Treville’s force had been submitted by his superior. He’d never made a move on his own.

He’d taken an undercover role because it had been offered directly to him. He’d trusted that it would all work out, because it always had before. And now -- who was to say that it would all continue to work out for him in future?

Who was to say it wouldn’t?

Athos opened the door of his apartment too quickly to have been doing anything other than hovering, waiting for d’Artagnan to return.

D’Artagnan shut the door without looking, walked forward until he collided gently with Athos, and buried his face in Athos’ shoulder.

Athos’ hands instantly came up to draw him closer; one to cup d’Artagnan’s head and the other to press on the small of his back. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having an existential crisis,” d’Artagnan muttered.

Athos stroked d’Artagnan’s hair gently. D’Artagnan was grateful for his silence; grateful for the dependable quiet of being in Athos’ space. Words were unnecessary here, in this comfortable embrace.

D’Artagnan slid his hand up Athos’ chest -- just -- just checking. He could feel Athos’ heartbeat through the layers of undershirt and flannel. He could have lost this steady reassurance. Athos’ blood could have spilled over his fingers as easily as Papa’s.

D’Artagnan could too easily imagine this apartment empty. He’d be standing in this dark hallway without Athos’ arms around him, without this heartbeat under his palm, wondering where all the ugly knick-knacks would go and what to do with the TV and the dog-eared books that d’Artagnan had never liked.

“I was just thinking…” His throat closed up. He tried his best not to finish on a squeak. “If it all went wrong, I’d really, really miss you?”

He closed his eyes, wishing he could sink into the floor or into Athos’ shirt or somehow disappear from sight. He wished he didn’t know Athos was looking at him, weighing his words so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing.

He wished everyone would stop looking and waiting for it to go wrong. His father, his farm, his boyfriend’s haunted and vengeful past… So many things had gone wrong.

Who was to say they wouldn’t go wrong again?

Athos cleared his throat softly. He stroked d’Artagnan’s hair again. “There’s something you need to know,” he said. “It’s about me, but it concerns the both of us.”

D’Artagnan tried not to freeze too obviously.

Athos took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m achingly, helplessly in love with you.”

“Oh,” said d’Artagnan. “ _That_.”

“That’s all you can say to such a confession?” Athos’ voice was dry, with only the barest hint of teasing. D’Artagnan had learned to love that tone within an hour of meeting him.

“I’m not sorry to say that it’s not a secret,” he said.

“You don’t understand,” said Athos. “I’d set fires for you.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help the giddy smile stealing across his face. Dammit, he didn’t want to laugh right now. He smushed his face further into Athos’ neck in defiance, and mumbled, “Already done.”

“Go up against my worst nightmares for you.”

“Check.”

“Topple governments for you.”

D’Artagnan finally withdrew to look at Athos, unable to contain the laughter. “I’ll put it on our to-do list.”

“Excellent.” Athos kissed d’Artagnan greedily. D’Artagnan let himself forget everything else and lose himself to the warmth of Athos’ mouth.

When he drew back, the laughter lines around Athos’ eyes remained, but a melancholy had crept into his eyes. “I could have lost you,” Athos whispered.

D’Artagnan fisted his hands in Athos’ shirt. “ _I_ could have lost _you_! I wasn’t really in danger. You were doing the worst of it.” His own part of the scheme had never seemed the most dangerous; it had been the terror that Athos could be harmed while they were forced to be apart that had shaken him to the core every time he had let himself think on it.

“Rochefort could have found you out,” Athos insisted. “Anne -- Milady -- she could have killed you if you had met her ahead of schedule.” A pained look flashed across his face. “She pointed a gun at you.”

“You could’ve burned to death in a fire,” d’Artagnan countered. “Or gotten shanked by your ex-wife. Or...” He cast around for a scenario. “Or been seduced to death!”

Athos’ hands tightened on d’Artagnan’s waist. Shit. Wrong thing to say.

“She could’ve killed you with her, her poison lipstick or something,” d’Artagnan hurried on, desperately making it into a joke.

There was a pause as Athos stared at him. “Poison lipstick?”

“Sure. Or strangled you with the garrote wire hidden in her garter.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little Pussy Galore, don’t you think?”

D’Artagnan sputtered and reared back. “I don’t need to hear that about your ex-wife!”

“You don’t know about Pussy Galore?”

“Please don’t tell me that Milady’s alter ego or something.”

Athos folded his arms around d’Artagnan and tucked him close again. “What have I done to deserve getting mixed up with someone who doesn’t know the classic Bond girls?”

“You can’t talk, not when you won’t even watch Friday the Thirteenth with me.”

Athos groaned loudly in d’Artagnan’s ear. “Ugh.”

“It’s the tamest one,” d’Artagnan begged. “There’s not even any blood. We’ll watch it even if I have to sit on you again.”

D’Artagnan heard Athos open his mouth. When no response came, he glanced up and saw that Athos’ face was beet-red.

“Oooh, are you thinking dirty thoughts?” D’Artagnan gasped. He tightened his grip on Athos’ shirt again and, grinning wickedly, rolled his hips against Athos’ body. “Do you want me to sit on you, honeybunch? Sweetcakes? _Man-_ thing?”

“D’Artagnan,” Athos warned, strangled.

“But what part of you should I sit on?” D’Artagnan bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “Should I… bounce? Ride? Don’t be afraid to say exactly what you mean,” he teased.  

Athos caught d’Artagnan’s chin and stared into his eyes. His gaze was bottomless and hungry. “You want me to say what I want?” He licked his lips and spoke his next words slowly and deliberately. “I want to never let you go. I want to take you into the bedroom and make you forget everything but me. I want to lie back and watch you sit yourself on my cock.”

D’Artagnan shuddered, full-body, and couldn’t help himself from grinding against Athos again. This time there was intent behind it. “Well. You only had to say, sweetheart.”

Athos pressed himself against d’Artagnan, pushing him back until they were stumbling toward the bedroom. “I’m so glad you’re not dead,” he said against d’Artagnan’s neck, where he was making headway on a hickey. “Because I’m going to kill you myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you clicked this because you recognized what it is, thanks for sticking around for so long. 
> 
> (If you've just read through the entire series, welcome! Say hi in the comments or on [tumblr](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/) and let me adore you.) 
> 
> I've gotten some really lovely messages on AO3 and tumblr from people who have enjoyed this series. I can't say that y'all exactly kept me going, because I was... I was not going at all for a while. I was a broken-down choo-choo that had flown right off the tracks and was lying on my side in Depression Canyon while train-eating buzzards circled overhead. 
> 
> But those messages kept me firm in the belief that if I got better, WHEN I got better, there would be people who would be glad for the closure that I kept meaning to write for my Big Bang. There would be people who remembered that I'd written a thing I was proud of, and would be happy to see that part of me again. So I send a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who dropped a note in the time between November 2014 and now. 
> 
> I've never forgotten this series or what I want to do with it. I have stories in my head about Athos and d'Artagnan, about Flea and Constance, about Porthos and about Aramis and about a certain baby with questionable paternity. Things are looking up for me irl, which means less time to write, but I hope to revisit this 'verse again soon. 
> 
> Much love <3


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